


Right To Bear Wide-Arms

by DreamingHylicat



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Assassins, Dark Comedy, Gen, Inappropriate Humor, Killing, Murder, Side Quests, Silly, The Lusty Argonian Maid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 14:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11694096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingHylicat/pseuds/DreamingHylicat
Summary: A captured newcomer to Skyrim desperately needs a rescue. The Dark Brotherhood desperately needs money and new recruits. The Dark Brotherhood's Listener desperately needs to get drunk.Everyone's desperate, basically.This fic has it all. Except for the things it doesn't have. What DOES it have, though?Insane murderous jesters, sulky Listeners, people who might not actually even BE from this part of the Universe, fetch quests, snarky wisecracks, and a whole lot of killing. Also bears. Well, complaining ABOUT bears. It's just another day in Tamriel.





	Right To Bear Wide-Arms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fluttermoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluttermoth/gifts).



> Re: the multiple puns in the title: I REGRET NOTHING
> 
> Note on pronunciation: Dæniaryn is pronounced "Day-NEE-ah-rin" or, in the International Phonetic Alphabet: /deɪˈniːɑːrɪn/ (the æ isn't an archaic English aesch; it's not pronounced the same way. It's got more in common with some of the various pronunciations of Æ in Norwegian.) Fear not! My other character names are easier to spell and pronounce. Usually. ;)
> 
> Note on pronouns: Dæniaryn (the alien original character mentioned in my tags) is nonbinary, and goes by shey/sheyr/sheyrs pronouns. Shey rhymes with the English word "day" (which sounds like, well, "Dæ" *LOL*). Sheyr sounds like the English words "share" or "sheer." Use your personal preference! I say it both ways. These aren't new pronouns; they're just not in widespread usage at present. Don't worry, I'm still getting used to them myself as of this writing! You'll notice that other people's pronouns for Dæ change, both in dialogue and narration, depending upon their own personal perceptions of sheyr. Dæniaryn, while using the shey/sheyr pronouns when pronouns are called for, doesn't really get why some people care about gender stuff and so doesn't really care what pronouns others use for sheyr--unless they're being deliberately dismissive or insulting.
> 
> Apologies to Fluttermoth for my gratuitous further corruption of her OC's Lumen and Luka. (We all know Luka is nowhere near as innocent as he sometimes acts, even though he's been much more open with his personal debauchery of late.) I hope I did ya proud writing for them!
> 
> Apologies to Dæniaryn for the shit shey puts up with from me. Unfortunately for sheyr, I enjoy it. Shey's not from Nirn, Oblivion, or even the known Aurbis, and sheyr appearance and speech are meant to reflect this (speech patterns often featuring terminology, usually slang, not encountered in Elder Scrolls). The nonbinary aspect, however, has absolutely nothing to do with being an alien, and everything to do with Dæniaryn being Dæniaryn.
> 
> (If any of you reading this story know my writing from way back in the day, and you think you spot an inside joke or three...you're probably right. ;3)

_Southeast of Ivarstead, traveling east:_

  
Frustrated, Dæniaryn bit down on the gag again. A wide, thick strip of hard leather and rough cloth, the irritating object kept sheyr from spitting out its companion piece, a cloth-wrapped stone shoved in sheyr mouth. It still didn’t give, and shey couldn’t close sheyr jaw far before being rock-blocked by the damned stone, but at least shey felt like shey was putting in an effort. When shey’d first been taken and had tried worrying at the ropes binding sheyr wrists and ankles, it had only earned sheyr a nasty kick to the stomach from a bored bandit who wanted to drink in peace. (Since shey was also blindfolded and didn’t know exactly who to blame for that painful little indignity, Dæniaryn had made a mental note to give every bandit shey killed a solid kick for good measure when shey finally escaped.)  
  
Although shey wasn’t a self-deceiving type of optimist, shey had to admit there was one upside to sheyr capture. In sheyr short sleeves and thin leggings, shey was woefully under-dressed for the climate of Skyrim. A heavy blanket, tossed over the open cart in which shey lay, hid sheyr from the notice of possible passing rescuers. But, despite its gaping holes, it also had sheyr feeling the closest to warm shey’d been since arriving in this frozen realm.  
  
Still, any novelty there might’ve been in being ambushed, bound, and carted away to illegal slavers in Morrowind had worn off hours ago. Now shey was just cold, exhausted, cold, hungry, cold, thirsty, cold, and sore all over. And cold. Dæniaryn blew an irritated sigh through sheyr nose and stretched out sheyr legs, trying to find a position shey could live with on the hard boards of the cart bed. The laughs and good-natured jeers of the bandits bounced around sheyr. They were celebrating their latest acquisition in as noisy a manner as possible, and it had sheyr missing sheyr own absent companions.  
  
_Where are they?_ shey wondered. A fearful chill stabbed through sheyr body, not for the first time. _They should’ve tracked me down by now, right? Maybe they didn’t make it through the portal before it closed. Maybe it really is up to me to get myself out of this, yet again. It would’ve been nice to have some help for once…_ Tired resignation moved in to walk with the fear. _Sure, I’ve had to save myself plenty of times before, but would it kill the Universe to cut me a break every now and then? Shit is fucking_ balls _, man._ Shey shifted once more, rolling onto sheyr side in another futile attempt to get comfortable.  
  
A fist slammed into the side of sheyr head through the blanket. Only the cloth layered around the stone kept sheyr from breaking a tooth, but pain still shot through both sheyr head and jaw. “Be still, wriggling eel,” hissed the one presumably responsible, a dour Argonian. “I’m not drunk enough to find your flopping funny.” From his slurring, the reptilian man was plenty drunk as it was. But not enough to affect his aim, sadly.  
  
Too agonized to find the unintentional rhyme and alliteration humorous, Dæniaryn added “punch the drunk Argonian bastard” to sheyr revenge scheme and huddled on the cart’s floor, shivering and waiting for the throbbing to fade. A lifetime of experience told sheyr that shey had probably ended up in sheyr current situation for a specific reason, and shey was likely at the beginning of a new adventure rather than having one cut short. But right now, shey cared a lot less for adventure, and a lot more for a hot meal and being able to feel sheyr fingers.  
  
With nothing else to occupy sheyr time, shey settled in to brood over sheyr current miserable lot in life. On occasion, there was nothing wrong with a nice long sulk.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  
_“Bears!”_ Lumen stomped through the ice crust of the forest path, a trail that seemed to be primarily used by local wildlife. Her boots were coated in freezing mud, and her long elven ears were living icicles, but she was too busy entertaining her own deep sulk to notice. “Why do _we_ have to kill bears? _She’s_ the one who wants to join the Dark Brotherhood. Why can’t she kill her own damn bears? She should be proving herself to _us_ , not the other way around!”  
  
Cicero strolled beside her, amused at her antics as usual. “Cicero couldn’t help but notice that his dear Listener didn’t turn Mistress Wide-Arm’s request down.”  
  
“How could I?” Lumen waved her arms as if trying to grab an invisible throat and crush it. “Temba is strong, and she’s willing to join. We need members. She needs more gold to keep her precious damned mill running. She should have jumped at our offer! Instead she has us running around doing her work for her. Collecting _bear pelts?”_  
  
“Sweet Lumen acts as if we’ve been hunting the foul beasts all day,” Cicero responded. “But the morning is young, and we have yet to start. _Are_ we going to honor her terms, then?”  
  
“Might as well,” Lumen grumbled. “Otherwise this whole stupid long trip will be a waste. But I can think of a dozen things I’d rather spend my day doing than looking for bear tracks and bear shit.”  
  
“Oh? Does the mighty Listener find such menial activity below her station?”  
  
He was teasing her again, and it was too easy to rise to the bait when she was already annoyed. “You know I don’t—”  
  
“Hush!” Cicero interrupted, instantly focused. He held up a hand, tilting his head. “Cicero hears voices on the road!”  
  
“I don’t hear anything.” Lumen wasn’t ready to drop her self-pitying and pay attention yet.  
  
Cicero dropped his hand and danced a quick jig, finding her statement hilarious. “The long-eared _elf_ …the _Listener_ …doesn’t _hear_ anything? Oh, that _is_ funny!”  
  
Resisting the urge to throttle him here and now—which would leave her to hunt all the bears by herself—Lumen settled for firing her best glare at him. “Shut up, Cicero. What about these voices? Are you certain they’re not just in your head?” It was a low blow, but Lumen would take whatever hanging fruit she could reach in her current mood.  
  
As ever, her Imperial companion was more than a match for Lumen and her (rather literally) glaring attempts to outwit him. “Ahhhh, the Listener is so cruel to her downtrodden Keeper!” he moaned, clutching his head with his usual overdose of drama. “Poor, pathetic Cicero is only trying to help his dear Lumen. He tries to warn her of other travelers who may be a danger to her. And she insults him, tells him to shut up—then expects him to speak! Against her own order! What is sad, abused Cicero to do?”  
  
A headache was doing its best to settle in; it was far too early to be dealing with both a fetch quest _and_ Cicero’s flair for dramatics and games.  
  
Lumen sighed. “Cicero—” she began, but stopped, freezing in place. Now she heard them as well, voices traveling up from the open road below. They were faint but moving closer. Laughter, curses, and off-key singing drifted to her ears on the wind, more voices than she would’ve expected to hear in one place on the remote path.  
  
Cicero had already snapped back into the uncharacteristic seriousness he displayed when there was a risk—or a life—to be taken, dropping to a crouch with hands caressing the hilts of his daggers. The change was always a bit startling to Lumen, seeing her beloved jester turn into a focused destructive instrument…but even more than that, it was exciting. Alluring. It reminded her why this strange man, of all people, was the one she now shared her life with.  
  
“Stay here while I have a look,” he hissed, whispering even though the owners of the strange voices were nowhere near enough to hear him speak.  
  
Lumen snorted. “Not a chance in Oblivion,” she retorted, dropping into her own crouch and following him through the trees. “It’s probably just a group of hunters or miners on their way back from somewhere. Maybe leaving a tavern. They sound happy enough.”  
  
Cicero, strangely focused, didn’t argue over Lumen choosing to follow him. He seemed to be in a great hurry to see who was coming.  
  
A few minutes of careful sneaking brought them to the top of a tree-lined hill overlooking the road, where they could survey for some distance without being easily seen themselves. Lumen could make out an old but sturdy cart with a driver and three passengers, pulled by a single brown horse and trailed by a surprising number of people, varying widely in both race and apparent sobriety level. She counted ten travelers in total. While it was unusual to encounter such a large group so far out in the wilderness, she couldn’t see anything to be concerned over.  
  
Cicero, on the other hand, was muttering to himself, agitated over something. “Dunmer with one eye,” he was saying. “Imperial with black tattoos covering her face…yes! Argonian mage wearing Khajiiti robes, yes, yes, they are all three there, yes! And more!”  
  
“Wait.” Lumen stared at him, suspicious. “You were _expecting_ these people?”  
  
Cicero blew out an exasperated sigh and looked over, losing some of his intense expression to scold her. “If sweet Lumen spent more time making friends with the locals, and less time ‘befriending’ the mugs of pig slop they call drink around here, you would have heard about the bandit gang that terrorizes these roads. And their distinctive three leaders.”  
  
Lumen shrugged. “Why should I care about some backwoods rogues bothering travelers?”  
  
Shaking his head, Cicero began slinking back into the forest, choosing a more secure hiding spot further in. “Because the reward the Riften jarl has offered for their demise is… _quite_ impressive. Enough that it would be a long while before we’d need to worry about how to support new brothers and sisters. Wouldn’t dear Lumen enjoy concentrating on rebuilding the Brotherhood, instead of concerning herself with trying to juggle too many raw recruits, too many contracts needing expensive specialized gear, and not enough gold to pay for it all?”  
  
“I don’t worry about that very much anyway,” Lumen said breezily, still determined to be contrary. Cicero rolled his eyes at her. They both knew it was a lie. One of few things she took seriously was her duty as Listener and leader.  
  
That, and her “duty” of “befriending” the alcohols of Tamriel, a task nearly as sacred to her as her role in the Dark Brotherhood. Cicero’s earlier jibe reminded her that the sooner they finished all their business in the frozen, less-than-great outdoors, the sooner she could sample local brews at the nearest inn. Preferably one with the largest blazing firepit in all of Skyrim. A jarl’s reward for wiping out a gang of outlaws could buy a lot of drinks, with plenty left over to invest in her family’s future…  
  
“All right, all right,” she grumbled. “Bandits first, then bears.” Lumen sighed, not wanting to plan a major attack strategy so early in her day. “So, how do we do this?”  
  
“Cicero thinks most of the bandits will take care of themselves.” The jester was leaning forward on the tips of his toes as easily as if he’d been standing upright with both feet flat on the ground. “Those are not the sounds of sobriety. Cicero would say they’re just as likely to fall on their own blades as ours.”  
  
Lumen growled a note of annoyance, envious that they were drinking so early in the morning, while she was forced to trudge the woods sober as a priest of Arkay. Cicero ignored her and continued, “However, Cicero hears the leaders are fierce fighters. The Argonian mage wields powerful destruction magic, while the Imperial and Dunmer are quick with their weapons. They seemed quite sober to Cicero, as well.”  
  
This wasn’t sounding like a battle Lumen wanted to fight, not at any hour of the day. “Even if half the group’s falling-down drunk, I still don’t see how we can take on the whole lot with just the two of us.” She frowned, shifting on her feet. Crouching was starting to become more painful by the second.  
  
“Cicero is thinking, if we follow them to—”  
  
A fierce, deep-voiced howl tore through the trees.  
  
“Was that…a wolf? No—” Lumen blinked then, realization hitting. It wasn’t the call of a normal wild animal. “Was that…a _werewolf?”_  
  
Down on the road, the bandits were shouting, and the unmistakable sounds of destruction spells were already sizzling in the air. Cicero and Lumen broke out of their crouches and ran back to the edge of the treeline to look, stealth now no more than a formality. Lumen gaped at the sight; a massive werewolf had already torn apart a pair of strong Nord outlaws and the Dunmer leader, and was now clawing into an incredibly drunk and babbling Argonian man, while a slender, familiar Nord mage traded spells with another bandit, a Breton rogue whose furious red face was as scalding as the flame attack she hurled in retaliation. “Arnbjorn and Luka! What are they _doing_ all the way out here?!”  
  
“Making our task considerably more simple,” Cicero replied with a wicked grin. He had already whipped out his blades and half-ran, half-slid down the hill, eager to join in on the action. Lumen followed more carefully. In her current mood, a little bloodshed was just what she needed to feel better, but tripping and rolling down the hill wouldn’t exactly strike fear into the hearts of her victims.  
  
Even taking her time, there were plenty of targets left to choose from when she arrived on the scene a few moments after Cicero. The element of surprise was spent after Arnbjorn’s and Luka’s initial ambush, and the outlaws now rallied to engage their attackers. As Lumen approached, Cicero plunged one dagger through the eye of a Breton man while singing a verse from an old drinking tune. His other dagger carved into the Breton’s arm, ending a feeble swipe from the man’s hand-axe before it could gain momentum.  
  
_“She laughed as she drank_  
_Cup flowed with deep red!_  
_She danced as she laughed_  
_Blood flowed to her head!”_  
  
It wasn’t the most creative tune, but drinking songs rarely were. Lumen felt the beginnings of a laugh at Cicero’s antics. Her day was finally improving.  
  
“Wood Elf trasssh!”  
  
The Redguard bandit’s drunken insult was barely worth acknowledging, but Lumen was feeling generous. She ducked under her opponent’s huge war-hammer—almost certainly a stolen Orcish weapon, as it was nearly too heavy for the Redguard to carry—and sliced upward into the man’s left side with her smaller, quicker dagger. His hammer slid from suddenly numb fingers while her blade caressed his ribs, then he collapsed away from her onto his other side, panting. Lumen kicked him onto his back and introduced her dagger to his heart. It wasn’t an amicable meeting.  
  
Ignoring his liquid, blood-choked gasps, Lumen turned away from the dying Redguard to pick a new fight. Her eyes gave the battlefield a quick sweep. Cicero had killed the Breton, but the dead man’s eye popped out when Cicero drew back his dagger, impaled upon the blade. “Greedy, greedy man!” Cicero was scolding the corpse, trying to slide the eyeball free with the bottom edge of his boot. “Cicero needs his blade back now, thank you very much!”  
  
On the other side of the stalled cart, where the still-hitched horse fidgeted nervously in its traces, Luka had won his magicka duel and was scouting a new target. Grinning like a little boy at the fresh bloodshed, he waved over at Lumen and Cicero before calling to the werewolf, “Arnbjorn, you were right! We _did_ meet Miss Lumen and Cicero on the road!”  
  
Arnbjorn didn’t acknowledge Luka’s hail. The remaining three bandits—including the two still-living leaders—were focused on him, and Lumen couldn’t blame them for being more concerned with a single angry werewolf than two humans and an elf. Burn marks marred Arnbjorn’s fur from the Argonian mage’s attacks. Minor cuts that would have been far more major ones on a non-lycanthrope bled into the burns. Arnbjorn snarled and swatted away a strike from the Imperial woman’s greatsword as they watched, followed by a lunge at the Khajiit bandit minion who retaliated with her claws, her bow broken on the ground and arrows scattered. It was clear that the fight wasn’t going to end any time soon if Arnbjorn didn’t have help. He could probably win on his own, but Lumen preferred having her friends…her _family_ …as close to whole and healthy as possible. She couldn’t stand by and watch him take abuse when she could lend a hand. She didn’t have to look at her brothers-in-bloodshed to know they felt the same.  
  
Cicero nodded to Luka, who was already preparing a spell intended to distract the Argonian mage, standing a short distance back and downhill from his melee-geared lackeys. It was unlikely Luka would be able to do significant damage with a direct strike; the glow of a magicka shield surrounded the Argonian man’s body. Cicero dropped into his crouch once more, using the cart as cover to sneak up behind the mage. Luka’s fire spell connected with the mage’s destruction staff, snapping it in twain and sending the top piece flying. The reptilian outlaw swung around to retaliate, but Cicero was right behind him with both blades ready. The Argonian fell without time to cry out, a red X carved in his throat and blood pouring down his light blue Khajiiti robes.  
  
That left the Khajiit and the Imperial, and the Khajiit had no weapons left but her claws and fists. Too impatient and filled with battle-rush to bother with stealth, Lumen was already running around the dying Argonian as Cicero cut his throat, her target the back of the Imperial bandit leader facing down Arnbjorn. She heard Luka’s footsteps behind her and moving to her left, most likely looking for a clear path to fire off another spell.  
  
The Khajiit saw Lumen coming and shouted a warning, but that brief distracted moment where she looked away allowed Arnbjorn to surge forward and wrap his jaws around her neck. A sickening snap echoed off the trees surrounding the road as the Imperial outlaw leapt away from both Arnbjorn and Lumen with an almost supernatural speed and grace. Arnbjorn tossed the Khajiit’s body aside—nothing now but bloodied, organic refuse. The four closed in on their final opponent as she backed away, not daring to turn and run. A smart person didn’t show their back to even an injured werewolf.  
  
“Well? Come for me, then,” the Imperial snarled. With all her band dead, she was no longer a leader. Just a lone rogue, but no less dangerous an opponent. She hefted her greatsword, keeping all four companions in her sight. “I’ll take you on myself. Go ahead, test me.”  
  
“Ho, ho!” Cicero chortled. “You think you’ll kill us all, just you and your little toy sword? Even Cicero couldn’t tell a better joke!”  
  
The Imperial was not amused. “After I kill you, maybe I’ll find this ‘Cicero’ and kill him, too.” She raised her blade and rushed Cicero in the same instant, a human streak of lightning.  
  
Terrified for Cicero, instinct took over Lumen’s mind and body. The familiar words rushed to her lips: _“Yol Toor Shul!”_  
  
The world in front of Lumen swirled into an inferno. She only knew her Shout had connected because of the agonized screams wailing on the other side of the flame. In just a few quick moments, the air cleared, and the former bandit leader lay writhing on the ground, made of dying char, bone, and blood. Her screams were now barely whimpers, whispered on the wind.  
  
Lumen gave the fading Imperial a solid, painful kick to the ribs in one final act of vengeance before turning to Cicero, who’d been very near her blast. “Are you all right?” she asked, looking him over. “I didn’t burn you, did I?”  
  
“Cicero is just fine,” the jester replied. “Maybe a little singed on his poor nose. Perhaps you would be kind enough to kiss it better for him?”  
  
“Anything.” Lumen was too relieved to banter with him. She leaned forward and kissed the tip of his nose. Nearby, she heard Luka start to loot the corpses, starting with the not-quite-dead and groaning Imperial woman. Arnbjorn was still coming down off his bloodlust. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”  
  
Cicero’s eyes were instantly wicked. “Well…” he began, “Cicero’s very, very impressive manhood may have suffered slight burns as well. If dear Lumen would be so generous as to give her healing kiss to my—”  
  
Arnbjorn interrupted the little Imperial man with a growl, annoyance and disgust mixed with, perhaps, the tiniest bit of amusement. Lumen could almost _feel_ the heat of Luka’s blush, who stopped rooting and made a choked sound of embarrassment. The Imperial woman had fallen quiet, but now she released one final moan. _“Kill me…”_ it seemed to say.  
  
Cicero just grinned, enjoying this far too much.  
  
Arnbjorn turned and loped into the woods nearby, most likely to transform and dress. His and Luka’s gear was probably stashed in the trees while they’d conducted their little ambush. Speaking of…  
  
“What are you two doing out here?” Lumen asked Luka. “You were supposed to wait for us back in Riften. That’s hours away from here.”  
  
Despite his Nord heritage, Luka seemed to shrink until he was dwarfed by Lumen. “Well…” he began, eyes rapidly darting about, “Arnbjorn said if we kept near the main road to Ivarstead, we’d probably find you and Cicero, Miss Lumen.” His mind was racing, that much was obvious, but Lumen had no idea why. Luka pressed his lips together tight for a moment before continuing. “Then we spotted that bandit party and remembered hearing about them in town, and Arnbjorn caught your scents in the wind and figured you were targeting the bandits too, and—”  
  
“That’s not what I asked you, Luka,” Lumen interrupted, trying to be stern although she was really more curious than anything else. _“Why._ Aren’t you. And Arnbjorn. In Riften.”  
  
Luka blushed again, distinctly uncomfortable. “Ah, well…” He coughed. “We, ah…we’re probably not going to be welcome in Riften for a while, Miss Lumen. Not until they lose interest in our bounty, at least. You and Cicero might be okay there, though…” He looked away and quickly strode to the next corpse, red as a lit forge.  
  
_Bounty…?_ Lumen shook her head, confused. Beside her, Cicero was bursting with curiosity, but was content to let her navigate these strange waters. Between Arnbjorn’s irritated unease with strangers and Luka’s tendency to forget about personal boundaries when he was interested in something, Lumen could only imagine what kind of trouble the two could’ve gotten into at Riften. But she had been so sure Arnbjorn could hold his temper in check at least long enough to keep Luka in line…She pushed that aside for a moment and asked the important question. “Did you at least find any new recruits?”  
  
“A few? Maybe? But we had to flee before we could confirm any of them, and we only covered about half the city before the guards found out about the pamphlets. I’m sorry, Miss Lumen.” Luka gave her a tiny smile, no less sincere in presentation for the fact that he now had blood up to his wrists from examining the bodies lying about. It almost matched the redness of his blush, in truth.  
  
“Pamphlets? Now Cicero is even more intrigued at Luka’s flaming cheeks,” Cicero put in.  
  
Luka looked on the verge of fleeing. “We were just supposed to hand out ‘The Warmth of Mara’ pamphlets. That’s what Arnbjorn and I thought they were, honestly!” He kneeled suddenly and pretended to be very interested in the next dead bandit’s satchel.  
  
Cicero wasn’t going to let him off so easily, of course. “And what manner of pamphlets were these, _truly?_ Dear Luka is blushing like a virgin on his first romantic tryst. Were they something… _obscene,_ perhaps? And, if so…did you bring any back with you?”  
  
Now Luka jumped up, panicked. “We didn’t know a prankster swapped them out!” he nearly shouted. His blush grew to cover his neck and ears. “They were supposed to be ‘The Warmth of Mara’ pamphlets! Really, that’s what we were told they were! We thought, maybe we could use them to start conversations with people—find out who we could talk to safely in Riften based on how they reacted. I mean, we couldn’t just _ask_ random people to become assassins, could we? We didn’t know the pamphlets were, um, _erotic_ illustrations from _The Lusty Argonian Maid!_ We didn’t look inside!”  
  
Cicero was by now laughing hysterically. Lumen couldn’t hide a smile, though she felt a little bad for poor Luka’s mortification. Luka shook his head and turned away to hide his face, too little too late.  
  
Transformed and clothed, Arnbjorn stepped out from the trees, now appearing to outsiders to be just an ordinary Nord man adjusting his trousers after a bladder break in the woods. “Are you three determined to attract the attention of every cutthroat in Skyrim with your braying?” he groused, but Lumen could swear she saw a dark tinge on his own cheeks. Was he _also_ embarrassed by the deceitful pamphlets? She tried to picture large, gruff Arnbjorn approaching people with religious publications, and a laugh bubbled in her throat. When she imagined his face at the realization of what he’d _actually_ been passing around, she couldn’t hold the laughter back any longer.  
  
Arnbjorn stared at her, discomfited. Then he _ahem_ -ed and straightened. “While you’re laughing like that toy jester of yours, _tidbit,_ you’re overlooking something that could’ve gotten you all killed.”  
  
Lumen flinched, instantly sobered. “What?”  
  
The big man pointed at the cart that stood a little ways downhill, where the horse was already calm again, probably having seen many skirmishes before. “Someone’s still alive over there. Saw it when I came out. And I don’t mean the horse,” he said by way of warning to Cicero, knowing a smart-ass remark was brewing otherwise.  
  
In one motion, the other three all jerked to look. There was a lumpy blanket spread over the rickety transport’s bed, sheltering its contents from the elements. A moving blanket.  
  
“Cicero will take care of it, sweet Lumen!” the jester sang, already in motion. He leaped for the cart, one blade ready. Lumen and Arnbjorn followed him with more caution. Even Luka pushed aside his humiliation and came along.  
  
Cicero climbed up into the cart and lifted the end of the blanket in a quick jerk, dagger poised to strike. Then he laughed and dropped his weapon arm. “Why, Cicero believes he’s found the bandits’ treasure. And a lively treasure it is, too!”  
  
Confused, Lumen reached in and helped Cicero toss aside the thick blanket. When she turned back from dumping it on the ground, Cicero was helping a very strange and shivering someone to sit up.  
  
It appeared at first glance to be a very small Bosmer—as in, small even for a Wood Elf—with very long, wild, multicolored hair and oddly greenish-bluish skin that didn’t seem to be related to the cold. With all the cloth and rope binding the prisoner, Lumen couldn’t tell for certain if they were male or female or what and didn’t really care either way.  
  
Perhaps realizing the futility, the captive didn’t try to speak, but they were obviously agitated, fidgeting in Cicero’s grip. He tried to untie the heavily knotted gag for a few seconds before giving up, impatient to get on with things. Leaning down to the Wood Elf’s ear, Cicero said in his jovial way, “Hold very, very still. Cicero would hate to cut his new friend’s cheek on their first meeting.”  
  
The Bosmer froze, except for the shivers. Whoever they were, they apparently didn’t have the sense to dress for Skyrim, Lumen mused.  
  
Carefully, Cicero ran his thinnest dagger underneath one of the cloth straps of the gag, next to the prisoner’s left cheek, then sliced out and down. The elf choked then, as Cicero thrust his fingers into their mouth, not much caring about their discomfort or ability to breathe. He removed a sodden bundle and tossed it to the ground with a heavy thump.  
  
“Look, you’re probably not here out of the goodness of your hearts or whatever, and I don’t care about that,” the mer rushed out as soon as they could speak. Even the voice didn’t fall under any definitive category that could point to gender or age, but Lumen wasn’t interested enough to form an opinion.  
  
However, she _was_ interested in the fact that the captive seemed aware of their criminal status—Luka _had_ been all but yelling the word “assassins” only moments ago, after all—and didn’t seem to take issue with it. Of course, that didn’t mean they could just trust the elf. Who had to have heard them saying each others’ names, as well.  
  
“But if you want t’kill me, good luck with that,” the elf continued. “Just know I’ll come back and slaughter every last one of you bastards.” The last part was said with such dark conviction, coming from someone who was in no position to be tossing around threats, that Lumen nearly grinned.  
  
Cicero did, and chuckled to boot. “Oh-ho, the strange tiny elf is quite ferocious! But we are not here for you, little friend.” Despite his tone, Lumen could tell he’d also picked up on what she and the others had—the bound elf’s posture indicated they knew something they weren’t telling. One didn’t last long as an assassin without learning at least a little of how to read what went unvoiced. Most likely some kind of bargaining chip, given the prisoner’s situation.  
  
Cicero’s voice stayed jovial, yet took on an unmistakable sharper edge. “Now, new friend, tell Cicero what you’re not saying…?” One of his hands tightened where it had been resting on the elf’s shoulder. Luka and Arnbjorn looked on with interest, occasionally glancing around for any unwelcome new arrivals.  
  
Obviously wary of Cicero, and wondering what would happen to them if they cooperated, the elf seemed to realize there wasn’t much choice. They sighed, wilting a little in defeat. “If I tell you something verifiable that you’re probably gonna like hearing, you gonna help me out of this mess?”  
  
“Perhaps, perhaps,” Cicero replied, pretending to muse it over. He was enjoying himself. “Cicero and his friends can be generous like that if so inclined.”  
  
“I think it’s under the driver’s seat of this shitty-ass wagon. The bandits’ treasure, I mean. I’ve been in here for hours, listening to these drunk idiots gossip about all their loot. It’s no good to me right now. Only fair you guys should get it if you’re gonna help me out.” The Bosmer took a quick breath and pressed on, determined to say their piece while they were still listening. “So, how about…you cut me loose, take the stash, and we’ll call it even? I _really_ don’t want to sit here and freeze out in the woods of gods-know-where.”  
  
Cicero abandoned them to jump out of the cart and poke around the driver’s seat, followed by Lumen and the others. The captive elf was no threat to them while still restrained.  
  
“Hey!” they yelped, writhing in the ropes binding them. “Come on, man, don’t ditch me now! At least leave me a knife to cut myself loose if you’re not gonna do it!”  
  
The others ignored them, scouting out the front of the wagon until Luka found a small hidden lever, masquerading as a second tiny hand brake. The seat lifted up, and the elf’s words were proven true. The hidden compartment was stuffed with bags of gold, jewels, and random weathered Ayleid and Dwemer artifacts.  
  
Finally calm and happy, Lumen sighed, hefting a jingling bag in one hand. The haul wasn’t enough treasure to permanently solve all of the Brotherhood’s financial problems, but combined with the jarl’s reward Cicero had mentioned, as well as selling the horse and cart in town, it should make for a more than respectable nest egg once all the pressing costs were taken care of.  
  
Plus, she could drink her weight in alcohol guilt-free, in her own warm, private room at an inn, without even tapping into the reward money.  
  
The prisoner muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “dicks,” then said aloud, “Sooooooo…we’re good now, yeah?”  
  
Almost. Lumen had a sudden burst of inspiration, and her current good fortune made the potential risk seem worth it. Plus, there were numerous bandit weapons and gear that were now going unused and ownerless that might come in handy for what she had in mind. She nudged Cicero and pointed at the strange Bosmer’s face.  
  
He obliged, nimbly jumping back into the cart and pulling off the blindfold. The elf eyed him cautiously a moment, wincing at the sunlight. Their eyes seemed to flash between icy blue and pale gray between rapid blinks, some trick of the sun, as the elf tried to take in the setting.  
  
Arnbjorn and Luka had returned to looting the bodies, while Cicero left the cart to collect bandit heads. That jarl was going to have a messy surprise later.  
  
Lumen stepped closer and leaned over the wagon’s interior, resting her forearms along the top wall. She looked the other Bosmer directly into the eyes—when those eyes weren’t recoiling from the light, at least. “We saved you from whatever these dead bastards had planned for you,” she began, testing the waters for the elf’s response.  
  
The mer tensed, seeming to realize that whatever was about to happen, they didn’t really have much say in the matter. “Yeeeeaaaaaaah…?” they responded warily. “You want something else from me, then? Look, I’m game for pretty much anything, if it gets me out of here.” That was the answer Lumen was looking for, with no tells to indicate it was a lie.  
  
Lumen nodded, trying not to grin and give away her game face. “We’ll release you and even let you take any gear and weapons you need from the corpses. _If_ you’ll do one thing.”  
  
“Okay? I mean, as long as it’s something I can reasonably do.” The Bosmer flinched and tried to draw up their bound legs as Cicero tossed a bloody bandit’s head into the wagon near their feet, but it was with mild contempt and disgust rather than fear—exactly what Lumen needed.  
  
Well, that, and as many full tankards as she could gulp.  
  
The elf added, _“And_ as long I get to punch and kick these dead assjacks before I go.” That last line accompanied a glare at the disembodied head.  
  
Lumen barely batted an eyelid. She’d heard far stranger requests from Cicero. And now, warm fires, hearty food, soft beds, and tall drinks were singing to her.  
  
This time, she did grin.  
  
“How are you at hunting bears?”

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus! Two of my other original characters were supposed to appear here: a feline alien who could pass for Khajiit and another alien who could pass for Bosmer (neither actually being based upon anything in Elder Scrolls). They'd fit in great with the Elder Scrolls crowd--especially the latter, who's an assassin in his own canon--but I wanted to keep the focus on Fluttermoth's group. So here, have a "deleted scene" featuring the two that amused me. :D (Still told from Lumen's perspective:)
> 
> [[Kyariko took a breath, seeming to center herself before speaking. She ran a paw through her long mane and nodded to Seffryn with a smile. "If you don't mind freeing sheyr, we can all be on our way and keep our promises."
> 
> For the first time, his face showed expression. It was one of frustration, though not with Kyariko. "Is that necessary? Shey’s easier to be around when shey can’t harass me.”
> 
> “Oh, you are in so much trouble when I get loose, Seffryn,” Dæniaryn called, sheyr voice cheerful.
> 
> Seffryn looked back, frowning at sheyr. “And shey was almost tolerable when shey couldn’t speak.”
> 
> “SO. Much. Trouble,” Dæniaryn shot back, now far less amused.]]
> 
>  
> 
>  **NOTE: You don't need to have an Archive Of Our Own account to leave comments or click the Kudos button!** I've had multiple people seek me out on social media to react to this fic because they didn't know they could do it here without an AO3 account. I hope I've now spared people from having to spend a bunch of time tracking me down offsite. :)


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